A.K.A. The saga with Metra continues. For some reason I have had ridiculously bad luck with Metra this summer. Maybe Ryan is the one that brought the bad luck, which I hypothesize is the case but can’t confirm since I’ve stayed far, far away from any trains since he’s left.
The evening started started with trying to shove the $1.50 parking fee into the machine which refused to take it. A credit card, two American debit cards, and two British debit card attempts later we had to say screw it and get on the train. As you can imagine, I was utterly terrified the whole ride downtown because I saw a sign in Schaumburg that said they will tow the car if the parking fee isn’t paid. A frantic text to my aunt along the lines of “Metra doesn’t actually tow cars right?!” and her response of “I don’t think they really do that!” didn’t help much.
Anywho, we were on our way to see (attend? I’m unsure of how to phrase comedy-like-performances) Who do We Think We Are? at Second City. We got there early because, um, I’m slightly ashamed-but-not-really to admit that I was seriously scared of getting picked on, which means I wanted to sit in the back.
Well that was a no-go.
We arrived to see the place mostly empty except for the very first row which means we would have our pick of seats. Ha. The reason the first row was filled up was because they actually seat you and assume that if you arrive that early you want to be in the front row. Oh crap. We were right on the end and the stage was boob level. Oh crap. We were in prime picking territory!
Yeah. Insert my ‘possibility for humiliation’ detector rise to code red. Thankfully we made through the entire three acts without having to utter a peep to the performers on stage. We were so crammed in there though that I couldn’t really move at all throughout the darn thing so that, combined with some utter anxiety about being humiliated, meant that I walked out of there with some serious abdominal pain. I guess that’s the price to pay for a few laughs.
My favorite had to be the improv at the end where the performers had to talk in different types of cereal. “Have a Blueberry Morning!” I love some Blueberry Morning!
Now back to Metra, which is really what this post is about. Why is there no 11:40 train?! That’s right folks, even though we were done hucking it up at around 11 we had to get some Subway and sit around Union Station until nearly 1 in the morning. Redo: Amy had to wait an extra two hours to find out if the darn car had been towed!
Thankfully, the car was still there when we rumbled into the station at 2 (2!) in the morning. Phew.
I’m so over you Metra.
Amy x
